Tag: love

When the Curtain Comes Down

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The day had finally arrived.

After months of anticipation, I sat in the Royal Opera House in London waiting for Jonah Hoskins to take the stage in La fille du régiment.

His talent is undeniable. There really isn’t another word for it. Watching him perform was everything I had hoped it would be. His voice filled that enormous theater, and I felt incredibly lucky to be there to witness it.

But one of the moments that stayed with me happened after the singing was over.

During the final curtain call, as Jonah stepped forward, I noticed the other members of the cast cheering for him.

Not just the audience. The people who had shared the stage with him.

There was something about the way they responded to him that caught my attention. You could see the affection. You could see that they were genuinely happy for him.

Talent can earn applause from an audience.

But I think the way people respond to you when the performance is over tells a different story.

I don’t know every interaction that happened backstage during those performances. But I do know the Jonah who is part of a family I love. He is someone who treats people with kindness and respect, regardless of their role or where their name appears in the program.

And somehow, watching those cast members cheer for him felt like seeing a little glimpse of that on a much bigger stage.

Jonah is the star. There is no question about that when you watch him perform.

But he doesn’t seem to need to announce it.

He just lives it.

And maybe that is what I find most inspiring about him.

For all the talent, all the applause and all the stages he has performed on, he is still a good human being to other human beings.

Nobody is perfect. But in a world that can sometimes make me wonder about people, it is good to be reminded that someone can be extraordinarily talented and still simply be kind.

Jonah, audiences around the world already know your talent.

I hope you always know that some of us are just as impressed by the person you are when the curtain comes down.

Do I Belong?

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I was about six years old when one of my friends said something to me that I still remember.

“You don’t even know who your real mom is.”

I knew I was adopted.

It wasn’t a secret in our family. My parents had always talked openly about adoption, and they did a pretty great job of helping me understand my story.

But apparently, at six years old, I hadn’t thought through all the logistics.

Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that the woman I called Mom could somehow be considered anything other than my real mom.

So, of course, I went home crying.

I asked my mom if she was my real mom.

I don’t remember the exact words she used that day, but I remember the answer.

Yes.

She was my real mom.

Did she give birth to me? No.

But she was the one who read me stories at night. She took care of me when I was sick. She knew what I liked and what I didn’t. She put up with my incredibly picky eating—which, quite frankly, should have earned her some sort of parenting medal.

She loved me.

She raised me.

She was my mom.

Real as they come.

But I think something else happened that day that I wouldn’t have had words for at six years old.

For the first time, someone had suggested that there might be an asterisk next to my family.

That there was another mother somewhere.

A real one.

And if there was such a thing as a real mom, what did that make the other one?

And what did that make me?

I certainly wasn’t asking those questions at six. I probably moved on fairly quickly to Barbies, riding my bike, or refusing to eat anything but peanut butter and jelly for dinner.

But the questions didn’t disappear.

They grew up with me.

My mom was always open about the fact that I was adopted. But talking about the woman who gave birth to me was different. That was a part of my story she seemed much less comfortable making room for.

Looking back, I think maybe it was easier for her to think of my birth mother as someone who had been part of my story before I became hers.

But as I got older, I couldn’t see it that way.

I remember saying to my mom, “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t exist. You can’t have me without her.”

I wasn’t trying to diminish my mom’s place in my life.

I wasn’t looking for a replacement mother.

I loved my mom.

I was trying to understand myself.

Who do I look like?

Where did certain parts of me come from?

Did she think about me?

Did I have her eyes? Her laugh? Her stubbornness?

Those questions weren’t a rejection of the family who raised me.

They were curiosity.

And curiosity doesn’t diminish love.

I think that’s something people don’t always understand about adoption, especially when a child is adopted at birth.

There can be an assumption that if a child was placed immediately into a loving home, then there shouldn’t really be anything to work through.

But there is.

At least there has been for me.

I can tell you without hesitation that I was loved by my parents. I can be grateful for the family I was raised in. I can know that my mom was absolutely, unquestionably my mom.

And I can still wonder about the woman who gave birth to me.

Those truths don’t cancel each other out.

My birthday is coming up, and birthdays have a way of bringing some of these questions back to the surface.

Things I think I’ve worked through sometimes show up again.

There is joy in my birthday. There is gratitude. There is the knowledge that I was wanted and loved.

But there is something else there too.

My birthday is also the day another woman gave birth to me.

I wonder what that day was like for her.

I wonder what she felt.

I wonder if, in the years that followed, my birthday ever came and went without her thinking about the baby she had placed in someone else’s arms.

I don’t know.

I never got the chance to ask her.

As an adult, I eventually learned who my birth mother was. I learned that she died when I was very young, so I never had the opportunity to meet her.

But I also learned that I have biological siblings.

Meeting them has been its own mixture of joy, emotion, discovery and, of course, more questions.

They knew our mother in a way I never could. They have memories of her. They lived parts of a story that, for me, will always be secondhand.

And yet, through them, some of the blank spaces aren’t quite as blank anymore.

There is something pretty incredible about meeting someone who shares your biology after spending so much of your life wondering where certain pieces of you came from.

It doesn’t answer everything.

It isn’t supposed to.

But it has given me pieces of my story that I didn’t have before.

And those pieces haven’t taken anything away from the family who raised me.

They’ve simply added to my understanding of who I am.

Maybe that’s why, all these years later, as I work on a children’s book about adoption, I keep finding myself thinking about that six-year-old girl.

I understand her questions differently now.

She didn’t need someone to convince her that adoption was wonderful.

She didn’t need someone to tell her she shouldn’t be sad or curious.

And she certainly didn’t need to choose which mother was her real one.

They were both real.

One gave me life.

One raised me.

One’s absence left me with questions.

One’s presence gave me a home.

And acknowledging one has never required me to love the other less.

Adoption is complicated that way.

We like stories that fit neatly into categories. Happy or sad. Gain or loss. Grateful or grieving.

But adoption has taught me that sometimes two seemingly opposite things can be true at exactly the same time.

I was loved.

And there was loss.

I belonged.

And sometimes I wondered where I belonged.

I was grateful for the life I had.

And I wondered about the life—and the woman—that came before it.

None of that makes my adoption less beautiful.

It just makes the story bigger.

Maybe that’s what I wish people understood about adopted children.

Even the ones placed at birth.

Even the ones raised in loving homes.

Even the ones who know exactly who their mom and dad are.

Sometimes we still wonder.

Who do I look like?

Where did I come from?

Why did this happen?

Do I belong?

Maybe belonging isn’t about erasing the complicated parts of our stories.

Maybe it’s finally realizing we don’t have to.

There is room for all of it

There is room for both of my mothers.

There is room for the family who raised me and the biological siblings I found later.

There is room for gratitude and loss, love and curiosity, knowing and wondering.

There is room for every piece of my story.

And there is room for me.

And if you’ve ever wondered if there is room for you, too—

come sit with me for a minute.

You belong here.

Under Construction

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When I started But First, a Nap, I thought I knew exactly what I was creating.

I pictured a place to share my quirky sense of humor, tell stories from everyday life, and hopefully make someone smile.

And to be fair… I still love making people laugh.

Sometimes I even do it on purpose.

But somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened.

The blog started changing.

Every Sunday I sit down thinking I need to come up with something clever to write about. More often than not, I discover that what I really needed to write about was something I didn’t even know I was carrying.

A sewing machine became a lesson in persistence.

A church garden in London became a reminder that broken things can still be sacred.

An opera became something else entirely.

I’m beginning to realize that I don’t write because I have answers.

I write because I’m curious.

Curious about why certain moments won’t let go of me.

Curious about why some conversations stay with me long after they’ve ended.

Curious about what it means to become a little more fully human.

The funny thing is, I thought this blog was about sharing stories.

Instead, it has become a place where I discover them.

That has been both exciting…

…and terrifying.

Humor is a wonderful place to hide.

Vulnerability isn’t.

When I stop trying to impress people and start writing about what truly matters to me, it feels like handing someone a piece of my heart.

The scary part isn’t sharing my heart.

It’s wondering whether anyone will recognize a piece of their own in it.

Because if just one person closes their laptop and thinks, I thought I was the only one, then sharing my heart was worth it.

For a long time, I think I wrote with the voices of doubt looking over my shoulder. Every sentence had to defend itself. Every story had to prove it deserved to be told.

Lately, I’ve realized something.

I’m not writing for those voices anymore.

I’m writing for the person who quietly wonders if they’re the only one.

If they finish reading and feel just a little less alone…

Then every vulnerable word was worth writing.

The humor is still here.

It’s just making room for something more.

I’m becoming more willing to share my heart.

That has been both freeing…

…and a little terrifying.

The construction isn’t happening on the website.

It’s happening in me.

And if you’re willing to stick around while I keep figuring it out…

I’d love the company.

Thanks for sitting with me for a minute.

If you know someone who might enjoy sitting with us too, I’d love for you to share this post.

Feel the Hurt and Keep Moving

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We all have those wounds.

You know the ones. The hurts that have never quite healed.

Maybe because the work of healing is hard. (It is.)

Maybe because we thought we’d moved past them.

Maybe because we’ve learned to function around them.

There are all sorts of maybes, but that’s a post for another day.

The problem is those old wounds don’t stay buried forever.

Sometimes something happens, and suddenly they’re wide open again. Once they are open, all the doubt, fear, insecurities, and old messages come flooding back.

You aren’t good enough.

Who do you think you are?

I thought you could, but I guess you can’t.

You’re too much.

You know the voices.

I had one of those moments this week.

Something happened that had nothing to do with my writing, but my brain didn’t seem to care. Within minutes, it had connected every hurt I’d ever carried into one painful conclusion.

“Hey, Kaydawn… did you forget? You’re a loser.”

It’s amazing how quickly a dysregulated nervous system can turn one painful moment into a life sentence.

My thoughts went everywhere.

Why would anyone want to read something you’ve written?

You’re not an expert.

Your friends are only reading your blog because they’re being nice.

You’ll never write a book.

So I decided I wasn’t going to write anymore.

What’s the point?

I took a couple of days to breathe before answering that question.

Then I realized I had been asking the wrong one.

The point isn’t to prove that I’m talented enough.

The point isn’t to become an expert.

The point isn’t to write a perfect blog.

The point is connection.

When I started But First, a Nap, I thought I’d mostly write about ADHD, procrastination, and the many creative ways I avoid doing the dishes.

Somewhere along the way, it became something bigger.

I still hope people read it. I’d love to build a following someday.

But more than that, I want to build a community.

A place for people who are trying their best, most of the time.

People whose feelings get hurt.

People who make mistakes.

People who say the wrong thing.

People who sometimes believe the worst about themselves.

Not toxic positivity.

Not endless misery.

Just a reminder that we’re not doing this alone.

And maybe that’s what communities are for.

Not because they take our hurt away.

Because they remind us we don’t have to carry it alone.

Maybe that is another lesson I’m learning.

Not every day has to be productive.

Not every day has to be meaningful.

Not every day has to be joyful.

Not every day has to be devastating.

Sometimes Tuesday hurts.

Sometimes Thursday is great.

And sometimes Wednesday just… is.

Maybe that’s what life really looks like.

Some days are great.

Some days hurt.

Some days just are.

The hurt doesn’t get the final word.

Feel the hurt.

Keep moving.

If this post made your heart feel a little lighter, would you share it with someone who might need it today? Sometimes hope finds us through a friend. 💙

Asking for a Friend

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Is it judgy to judge someone who is judgy?

Asking for a friend.

(It’s me. I’m the friend.)

A few years ago, while working at a residential rehab, I accompanied a client to the emergency room. After the initial flurry of nurses, questions, and paperwork, there wasn’t much left to do except wait.

So we talked.

We talked about recovery, stigma, and how exhausting it can be when people see “addict” before they see “person.”

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve always had a soft spot for people who feel pushed to the edges.

Working in rehab confirmed something I’d suspected all along: people can make heartbreaking choices and still be worthy of understanding and love.

We talked about people who judged those struggling with addiction.

Then we talked about other kinds of judgmental people.

But not us.

Somewhere in the middle of that conversation, a thought quietly crossed my mind.

Am I being judgmental?

Sadly…

Yes.

Over the years, I realized something that changed the way I see people.

So often, judgment isn’t rooted in hatred.

It’s rooted in fear.

I’ve come to believe that people often fear what they don’t understand. Sometimes they’re protecting deeply held beliefs. Sometimes they’re protecting themselves. And sometimes they’ve simply never had the opportunity to know someone whose story is different from their own.

Seeing that people were often scared—not just unkind—didn’t make their judgment okay.

But it did make them easier to understand.

Does understanding why people judge make it okay?

Not really.

But it does remind me that “people” includes me.

I still catch myself making assumptions.

I still have moments when I see a label before I see a person.

Maybe that’s why grace matters so much.

We all need someone willing to look past the label long enough to see the human being underneath.

Including the person in the mirror.

If this post encouraged you, made you smile, or reminded you that you’re not alone, would you share it with someone who might need it today? Sometimes hope has a way of finding us through a friend. 💙

Honoring the Gift

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Recently, someone I know received a heart transplant.

A real, honest-to-goodness miracle.

The heart was a perfect match. Surgery went well. Recovery went well. In fact, things went so well that they were released from the hospital earlier than expected.

Then they ended up back in the hospital.

From what I understand, they were feeling so good that they weren’t following all the precautions the doctors had recommended.

I’ll admit, I spent a few days serving as the self-appointed Chairperson of the Committee for Other People’s Life Choices.

Then I realized something uncomfortable.

The questions I was asking about someone else’s heart were questions I had never seriously asked about my own.

Because I, too, have been given a heart.

Not a transplanted one. The original equipment model.

It has faithfully shown up every day for nearly six decades without asking much in return.

And unlike the transplant recipient, I didn’t even have to wait for mine.

It was given to me freely.

By the greatest Giver of all.

That realization led to some uncomfortable questions.

Do I take care of my body the way I should?

Do I exercise enough?

Do I eat the way I know I should?

The answer to most of those questions depends on the day you ask me and whether Dr Pepper Zero Sugar counts as a food group.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the question was bigger than physical health.

What does it mean to honor the gift of being alive?

Not just to keep my body alive.

To keep my soul alive.

To keep curiosity alive.

To keep hope alive.

To keep kindness alive.

To keep laughter alive.

To keep writing alive, even when nobody is waiting for the next blog post.

To keep learning new things at an age when I occasionally wonder if I should have everything figured out by now.

To keep loving people despite disappointment.

To keep showing up.

There is a difference between merely staying alive and truly living.

I’m not talking about skydiving or climbing Mount Everest. Frankly, both sound exhausting.

I’m talking about being awake to the life we’ve been given.

Because if I’m honest, I spend a lot of time thinking about all the things I should be doing better.

I should eat better.

I should exercise more.

I should be more disciplined.

I should be further along.

I should have figured this out years ago.

The problem with “should” is that it usually brings shame along as a traveling companion.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if there is a better question.

Not:

Why aren’t you doing better?

But:

How can you honor the gift today?

Some days, honoring the gift might look like taking a walk.

Some days it might look like calling a friend.

Some days it might look like setting a boundary.

Some days it might look like resting.

Some days it might look like starting something that scares you.

Some days it might simply mean getting back up after making a mess of the day before.

I’ve discovered that not every imperfection is evidence of failure.

Sometimes it’s simply another place where I can be intentional.

Another opportunity to grow.

Another reminder that I am still becoming.

Because honoring the gift of being alive isn’t about doing everything right.

It’s choosing to live with purpose and intention, even on the days we feel messy, imperfect, unseen, or painfully aware of our mistakes.

The beautiful thing about a heart is that it doesn’t quit because yesterday was imperfect.

Every morning, it is still beating.

Maybe that’s the invitation for the rest of us, too.

The Dumb Kids Use Computers

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When I was in grade school, I was the reading kid.

You know the type.

Top reading group.
A-plus student.
The one teacher asked to help other students.
The one who felt pretty confident… at least when words were involved.

Math?

That was a different story entirely.

I struggled.
I got tutored.
And in sixth grade, back in 1975, my school introduced something new for kids who needed extra help in math:

Computer class.

Now, to be clear, this was not the exciting, cutting-edge, “the future is here” kind of computer class.

This was the “you need help, so go work on math problems on the computer” kind of class.

At least, that’s how I understood it.

One day, my teacher reminded me, “Kaydawn, don’t forget to go to your computer class.”

And then one of the boys in my class said:

“Only dumb kids go to computers.”

Kids can be cruel.
Kids can be careless.
And sometimes, kids say things that lodge themselves into places we don’t even realize are vulnerable.

At the time, I don’t know that I consciously believed him.

But somewhere along the way, I think part of me did.

Because here’s what I’ve come to realize:

That moment may have shaped more than how I felt about math.

It may have quietly influenced how I felt about technology, learning new things, and even my own intelligence.

Logically, I know how ridiculous that sounds now.

Computers are everywhere.
In our homes.
In our cars.
In our pockets.

We use them for work, connection, creativity, problem-solving, and yes… blogging.

No one hears “she uses a computer” and assumes incompetence.

And yet, old beliefs don’t always disappear just because they no longer make sense.

Sometimes they just get quieter.
They hide underneath frustration.
Avoidance.
Self-doubt.
That subtle voice that says, “This is probably not for you.”

Looking back, I wonder if part of me hasn’t resisted technology because I’m bad at it…

…but because some small, younger part of me learned to associate it with feeling dumb.

And maybe avoiding it felt safer than risking that feeling again.

Funny how protection can sometimes look a lot like procrastination.

Or stubbornness.
Or “I’m just not good at this.”

The truth is, we all carry stories.

Things people said.
Moments we misunderstood.
Labels we accidentally accepted.

And sometimes, without even realizing it, we keep living as though those stories are still true.

This blog, in many ways, is me challenging one of mine.

Not because I have something to prove to anyone else…

…but because maybe I still have something to prove to myself.

That I am capable of learning.
Capable of changing.
Capable of questioning beliefs that never deserved permanent residence in my mind.

I can’t be the only one carrying around an outdated story.

Maybe yours isn’t about computers.

Maybe it’s about your body.
Your worth.
Your voice.
Your intelligence.
Your lovability.

Whatever it is, maybe it’s worth asking:

Who told me that?

And more importantly…

Do I still believe them?

Because maybe the problem was never that we were incapable.

Maybe we were just still listening to someone who didn’t know what they were talking about.

Turns out, I was never dumb.

I was just still listening to a sixth grader.

I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

What outdated story are you still carrying around… and who told you it was true?

Grace, Growth, and the Small Wins We Forget to Celebrate

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There’s something I’m realizing lately:

I am often far better at giving grace to other people than I am to myself.

If a friend is overwhelmed?
I get it.

If someone I care about drops the ball?
I understand.

If life hits hard and they’re doing the best they can?
Compassion. Every time.

But me?

Oh no. Apparently, I should have it all figured out, stay motivated, never procrastinate, heal perfectly, show up consistently, and possibly also become a morning person.

(We all know that last one is unlikely.)

Somewhere along the way, many of us learned to treat our own humanity like failure.

We minimized our progress because it wasn’t big enough.
We dismissed our effort because it wasn’t perfect.
We overlook growth because we’re too focused on how far we still have to go.

And honestly? That’s exhausting.

I’m starting to think grace is about making room.

Room to be a work in progress.
Room to celebrate small wins.
Room to acknowledge that maybe getting out of an old pattern is worth noticing, even if it’s not dramatic.

Maybe grace is recognizing that healing, growth, discipline, and change are usually built in tiny, unremarkable moments that don’t always look impressive from the outside.

And maybe… maybe we deserve to celebrate those moments more.

Not in a “everyone gets a trophy” kind of way.

But in a “hey, I handled that better than I used to” kind of way.

I’ve been quietly sitting with the idea that we may need to get better at documenting our wins—not just the giant, obvious milestones, but the subtle victories too.

The days we paused instead of spiraling.
The moments we chose kindness over criticism.
The times we kept going.

Maybe those count more than we think.

And maybe giving grace—to ourselves and others—isn’t weakness.

Maybe it’s how we keep growing.

So here’s your reminder (and honestly, mine too):

Celebrate the good.
In yourself.
In others.
In the tiny things.

Because life is hard enough without constantly moving the finish line.

And sometimes…

The victory is simply noticing you’re doing better than you were before.